Let Me Be: A Love Letter to the Body I Live In

Introduction

For most of my life, I treated my body like a foreign object.
Something that I just didn’t understand for the most part.
It was something that got me around, but it didn’t always work well with me.
It was something to shrink, shape, correct, or overcome.
I measured it against impossible standards. Pushed it past its limits. Apologized for it, ignored its pain, punished it for not blending in.
I learned early that if I wanted to be accepted, I couldn’t just “be.” I had to perform and perform well. I wasn’t allowed an off day even though I would personally accept anyone else having one. And that performance extended all the way to my skin, sometimes feeling so uncomfortable I wanted to shed it.
Unmasking isn’t just about the mind—it’s about the body too.
And now, after years of ignoring it, I’m trying to come home to mine. Not just tolerate it, but maybe, finally, love it.
This isn’t a post about perfection.
It’s a letter of permission.
To be.
To rest.
To take up space without apology.
To stop asking for approval and start listening inward.
This is a love letter—to the body that carried me through it all.

The Body That Wasn’t Allowed to Be

I was taught—directly and indirectly—that my body was something to fix.
It was constantly in motion even when standing still.
Too sensitive. Too awkward. Too much.
Or not enough of the right things. No calmness, no stillness.
I flinched at sounds others didn’t notice. One of my nicknames was “Kramer” — yeah, the guy from Seinfeld — due to my “irregular body movements.” I needed soft fabrics, quiet rooms I could never find, deep pressure, space to move or stim—
And instead of being met with curiosity or compassion, I was met with confusion. Sometimes dismissal. Sometimes anger. Sometimes shame.
So I learned to disconnect from my body no matter what the personal toll.
To override signals. To silence discomforts.
To sit still when my body begged me to move. To ignore the pressure building in the boiler.
To smile when my skin buzzed with overstimulation.
To act calm when my heart was racing, when my body was on fire.
And over time, I got good at it—good at looking like I was fine. I must have been good at it. I have heard the words many times over “I love your calming presence.”
If they only knew what my body always knew. That it was a complete alley of chaos.
And eventually, it started to fight back. It started to shut down.
Fatigue. Burnout. Meltdowns. Mysterious symptoms no one could explain.
Not because my body was broken—but because it had been trying to speak all along, and I hadn’t been allowed to listen.

Learning to Listen Again

It didn’t happen all at once.
There was no sudden awakening, no clear moment when everything changed.
Just a quiet shift— I think it started when I had time to listen at the start of Covid. As I mentioned I do not sit still well so I started diving into my wellbeing.
It started maybe as a pause, a breath, a flicker of awareness that maybe my body wasn’t the enemy.
Maybe it was the only part of me that had always told the truth.
It started small.
Noticing the way my shoulders curled forward in meetings, trying to disappear.
How my jaw ached from gritting my teeth—or holding in stims. Or the number of sores in my mouth from biting back words.
How the world got louder, sharper, whenever I ignored my limits. Eventually it gets to the point where it seems so disorienting that you are forced to crash. You can no longer stand the pain you put yourself through. Your body revolts.
So I am starting to remember to check in.
Where does it hurt today? Have you eaten and kept up on your water intake?
What am I trying to push through?
What would it look like to stop, even just for a moment? Would everyone still allow me to exist in peace with them?
Listening isn’t easy. I forget constantly, hyperfocus is real.
Sometimes it means facing how long I’ve neglected myself.
Sometimes it means grieving what I didn’t get to feel—because I was too busy enduring. Or grieving a limit that I must finally admit and honor.
But sometimes, listening brings softness.
A hot shower when I need warmth, or the lovely smell of roses. That perfect rose smell feels just like a warm embrace.
Noise-canceling headphones when the world is too much, or just wearing them when I go out in areas of high traffic. Take care of the need before it arises.
A hoodie or weighted blanket that feels like a hug.
A stuffy riding with me in the car so I can pet them and feel the softness of the fur to calm me down while driving.
A walk without a destination.
Sometimes it’s letting myself stim freely, without apology.
Sometimes it’s saying no. This one is still the hardest.
Sometimes it’s saying yes to something just because it feels good.
And little by little, I’m starting to hear my body again.
Not as something to control or outsmart—but as something to partner with.
A companion. A home.

Letting Myself Be

There’s something quietly radical about allowing yourself to just… exist.
Not improve.
Not perform.
Not explain or apologize for.
Just be.
After a lifetime of masking, contorting, overthinking every movement, word, and breath—it feels strange to consider that I don’t have to earn my place in the world. That I was never meant to be at war with my own body. That rest isn’t laziness. That comfort isn’t indulgence. That stillness isn’t failure.
Letting myself be means honoring my limits, even when I wish they were different.
It means not punishing myself for needing breaks, for not doing things the “normal” way, for moving through the world on a rhythm that isn’t always in sync with everyone else’s.
It means asking: What if my body has always been trying to protect me?
What if the discomfort, the fatigue, the restlessness—what if those were never flaws, but signals? Signals that my brain has been telling me to ignore because if you do give in, that’s when the real pain begins. Oh the tricks it can play.
What if my body’s been speaking a language I just wasn’t taught to understand?
Letting myself be means giving up the exhausting chase to be palatable. It means things may roll out of my mouth that need to be said. I never intend to hurt anyone, but I reckon to some the truth can be painful. I can’t hide truths just to make others feel better when it wounds myself.
It means wearing the soft and bright clothes, yes my two favorite colors are probably purple and pink. It means most of the time avoiding the crowds, or accepting the toll for possibly things that are worth to pay it for. It means carrying the stuffy, despite the glares that come my way.
It means crying when I need to cry, stimming when I need to stim, and saying “enough” even when someone else doesn’t understand why. Even when that someone else may be family. As a parent I am responsible for my child's energy to some extent or energy always flows from parent to child. Other than that, I need to learn that the rest of my energy is to heal myself and be with loved ones.
And it means giving my body the thing it was denied for so long: kindness, acceptance, and love. Oh it deserves some love.
I’m not all the way there, I am not even close. I am fully aware this is the start of a new journey for me. Some days I still feel like a stranger in my own skin.
But more and more, I’m learning to stay.
To breathe.
To be. To be me.
Because this body—it carried me through the hard parts.
It never gave up on me, even when I gave up on it.
It held the panic, the pain, the hope.
It deserves more than survival.
It deserves love.
And so, this is my practice now:
Letting myself be.
Letting myself rest.
Letting myself heal.
Not someday. Not when I’ve earned it.
Now.

Closing Reflection

I’m still learning what it means to live in a body without shame. To learn to put down my internal whip.
Still learning to hear its voice, to honor its signals, to meet it with care, compassion, and love instead of criticism.
Maybe you are too.
So I’d love to know:
What helps you come home to your body?
What practices—small or large—remind you that you’re allowed to rest, to be, to feel?
If you’re navigating this journey too, you’re not alone.
You deserve comfort. You deserve care.
You deserve to take up space exactly as you are—no edits, no apologies.
Let’s keep building that kind of world together—one breath, one truth, one act of self-kindness at a time.
If this resonated with you, I’d love to hear your story. You can leave a comment or subscribe for more reflections like this. We heal quietly, but we grow stronger together.